


Hidden Ascensions

by 200percent_inlove



Category: K-pop, Suran (Musician), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Awkward Flirting, Crush at First Sight, Crushes, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Meet-Cute, Romantic Fluff, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/200percent_inlove/pseuds/200percent_inlove
Summary: Attraction, Yoongi soon realizes, is something that hits him in the form of cherry-red lip lacquer, parking ticket disputes, disheveled pencil skirts and somewhat clumsy, yet graceful flirting.Office AU.





	Hidden Ascensions

**Author's Note:**

> Working in an office building really makes you have these feels about potentially meeting someone nice - even if you both don't work in the same place - ya know what I'm saying? Also, I love meet-cute stories. Sue me if you must. :3 Hope you enjoy this Yooran/Soongi piece!

Monday mornings were often the most painful days for Min Yoongi.

His closet – filled with nothing, but a depressing assortment of navy-blue slacks, grey suits, white dress shirts and black leather shoes – was simply a daily reminder of the terrible business scum that he reluctantly became.  

Four grueling years of university, three unpaid internships and an insurmountable litre of blood, sweat, and tears:  All for the sake of selling his soul to the corrupted world of corporate and investment banking.

There were no qualms about it – the money he raked in supplied him with all the materialistic needs that he had coveted since high school and could only daydream about in his university lectures; he was able to renovate his homely apartment into a simpler, minimalistic style that provided much more comfort than the tiny studio he rented out during his Bachelor’s program. And the fact that he was able to accomplish so much within six years without connections or outside help – needless to say, his parents (Humble owners of a _budae jigae_ restaurant in _Samcheong-Dong_ ) stood tall and proud whenever he visited and helped behind the counter.

To his friends, to his family, Yoongi succeeded in all aspects of adulthood.

But, still. There were _those_ instances; you know what he’s talking about, right?

Like when he picks up his briefcase – a sleek piece of flat leather – and he repels in disgust at the work he often brought home but refused to touch during the weekends (Because he’s a goddamn lazy son of a bitch and firmly believes in relaxation).

Like when he’s standing at the train station and is squeezed to death by gruff businessmen alike when they all board the train together, and he rubs his temples frustratingly to squish his neurons to death and ruin his sense of smell.

Like when he has to go six hours overtime at least once a week, because his snooty superior refused to accept anything other than perfection.

And those occurrences combined make it increasingly difficult for Yoongi to leave the coziness of his bed for an uncomfortable office chair and a computer too slow for his liking.

So, when he walks into the building lobby where his office resided quaintly on the twentieth floor promptly at eight (Never a minute too early, never a second too late) and towards the elevators, the last thing he really needed on an already-shitty morning was a crowded line-up.

Or, so he thought.

Instead, he sees the doors left ajar, the occupants clearly unamused, and a girl stumbling about with a notepad in one hand, a briefcase in the other and her heels clicking around in anxiety. If she wasn’t pacing in agitation like this, Yoongi would say that she was naturally very pretty. But her hair – tied into an intricate knot – was starting to come undone, and that gray skirt of hers – Yoongi doesn’t want to make rude remarks, but really, it looked like she dug it out from the bottom of her closet without ironing it.

He continues to watch as a balding man, irritated and annoyed, barks at her rudely. He recognizes him – he’s one of the CSOs for a pharmaceutical start-up on the tenth floor, clearly always stressed from the smallest and most mundane of issues.

“Are you getting in, or not?”

The girl looks up from her papers attentively, but only scratches her head and says slowly, “I was told this elevator doesn’t go to the ninth floor, right?”

“Stop wasting our time.”

“All she asked,” Yoongi snaps suddenly with a sassy eye-roll. “Was if it doesn’t go up to where she needs to be. No need to be harsh.” The CSO lets out an embarrassed splutter before rapidly pressing the close doors to ascend, leaving only Yoongi and the girl behind to an uncomfortable silence.

They exchange glances, but she shyly breaks away first; likewise, he coughs awkwardly into his elbow before mumbling, “You’re okay, yeah?”

“I **_would_** be!” Yoongi smirks. Perky. “The security guard outside the building just kept saying ‘no, no, no’ when I asked him for directions.” She shrugs. “I’m guessing he just doesn’t know or refuses to tell me?”  

“The longer you work here, the more you’ll realize everyone is their own character. Example A would be Mr. Grouchy-Bald-Patch.”

“Hmm, so I guess the security guard is Mr. No-No-No?”

They barely exchange a few sentences, and Yoongi already likes her fast-acting wit; charming, to say the least. “You pick up quick.” He nods in approval. “Did you recently get hired?”

“I transferred from our head office in _Incheon_.”

“Ah. Well, in that case,” He advises, pressing the “Up” button. “I suggest you take this up to the eight floor, then from there on, take the stairs up. Pro-life tip for working here:  On Mondays, the elevator doesn’t stop on the ninth floor ‘cause of maintenance.”

“You’re just full of tips for newbies, aren’t you?” She teases, stepping in when it arrives.

“What can I say? Six years really puts things into perspective for ya.”

He doesn’t _mean_ to be creepy, or scare her off for that matter. All he wants is to be welcoming and friendly (And most importantly, prove Tae-Hyung wrong that he’s an ‘Ice Prince’) – so, before the elevator slows to a halt at her floor, he blurts out before he can stop himself, “Would you like me to show you where the emergency exit is?”

She returns his gesture with a bashful smile. “No, no. I’m sure I can find it on my own.”

“O-Oh,” Yoongi is trying _so_ hard not to let it phase him. But shit, it does – and it seems like she can read him like an open book right then and there, based on how she was chewing on her lower lip anxiously. “Alright, then.” _Bite your tongue next time. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stu –_

“Y’know, not to say that I don’t appreciate your help!” She squeaks out, bringing him out of his stupor. “I’m sure you have things to do and you’re busy, so, so – you know, I’m okay on my own!”

He doesn’t know why, per say, but her words comfort his heart somewhat. It’s a strange feeling; peculiar, almost, that someone he only met for five minutes could have such an effect on him.

“What’s your name?”

She’s halfway out of the elevator when she whirls around, her messy up-do unravelling before him to reveal mesmerizing hints of teal and lavender. Bowing to him, she calls out, “My name is Shin Suran. I’ll be sure to shake your hand the next time I see you.” Laughing cutely, she adds, “It was nice to meet you.”

The doors close before he can respond with a sincere _‘The pleasure was all mine’_.

Now, Yoongi normally loathed Mondays to the point of no return.

But perhaps, he thinks as he seats himself comfortably at his desk and switches on the power for his laptop, this particular Monday wasn’t _all_ too bad. When preparing his tea in the canteen, his junior, Ho-Seok, notes with fascination, “Wow, Yoongi- _hyung_. You didn’t even add sugar cubes or milk today. Taking the tea straight, huh?”

Yoongi glances at the steeped beverage before him, tilting his head to the side curiously before a rare ghost of an amused smirk appears on his face and says, “Huh. So, I guess I didn’t.”

Ho-Seok’s mouth is still open in astonishment when Yoongi makes his way back to his desk, but he quickly recovers and catches up with him, making strange, heaving noises. “Y-You’re happy? On a **_MONDAY_**?”

“You got a problem with that?” is the only thing Yoongi retorts before dropping a stack of files onto the younger man’s desk.

“Data entry this morning, Jung Ho-Seok. Get yo shit together.”

“ ** _Language_**!”

* * *

 

Tuesday transits were normally the worst and Yoongi preferred not to be packed like sardines in the morning. So, he regularly parks his car in the parking lot one level beneath the main floor. The joys of being a corporate slave was the fact that he often reaped what he sowed. And what that entailed, after consecutive days of overtime, dark circles underneath his eyes and almost twenty-four hours with no shut-eye, was the smell of fresh leather and the touch of a sleek steering wheel from his newly-purchased Mercedes-Benz.

Yoongi knows he shouldn’t be _this_ smug about it, but can he help himself? Even when he leaves the driver’s seat, he can _feel_ his colleagues staring at him, green with envy, and he responds with a secretive smirk. One of his mentors from his internship taught him to ‘brag inconspicuously’ – just to spike interest, but not in an ‘asshole-y, in your face’ way (Whatever the hell that meant). He just does as he’s told, he presumes, and since it works, he’ll continue to do it for as long as he’ll live.

He nears the underground entrance into the main hall when he catches sight of the curiously alluring Shin Suran from yesterday once again. She’s standing next to an older model of a Honda Civic – somewhat beat-up at the sides and scratched on the surface of the hood. Now, normally he probably would’ve just acknowledged her quickly and went about his day if it were any other person – but with the way her brows were furrowed and mouth was thinning, he pauses and changes trajectory.

His pace slows once he nears her, and he overhears a hoarse, gruff voice arguing with her. Something about improper parking, fines and dues?

 _Ah._ “Well, well, well. What seems to be the commotion here?”

The sixty-something security guard glares Yoongi with pure malice and venom, but the younger man is completely unfazed. “She can’t read signs!” And off he goes on an angry outburst about reserved spots, unhappy higher-ups and common stupidity in ‘this day and age’.

“That’s not true – “ Suran attempts to argue, but Yoongi only shakes his head briefly. _I’ll handle it._

“I can assure you she’s very literate, sir.” Yoongi begins, a tad bit too friendly as he casually smooths out the wrinkles on his suit jacket. “So you say, she parked in the ‘Reserved’ parking. Yet, here she is, realizing within five minutes afterwards and she came back to park elsewhere. Adding on,” He continues. “She’s new to the building and it’s _only_ her second day. Cut her some slack, yeah?”

His voice is friendly and welcoming, but Suran catches it right way:  The pleasantness shifts quickly into aggression, and his stare is tinted with cold steel. 

The security guard haughtily turns his nose upwards at Yoongi, crossing his arms against his chest “Regulations, _sir_. There are no loopholes.”

“Often times,” Yoongi begins, holding up a hand in front of the guard to stop him from interrupting. “Loopholes come in the form of monetary compensation.” With the other, he fishes out his thick wallet. “So, you can either take it, wipe your memory clean of this incident. No harm done.” Pausing, he adds darkly, “Might I remind you that you’ll have fifteen pages of paperwork to fill out for this type of shit. I’ve seen it happen with my colleague.”

Suran watches nervously as the guard clicks his tongue. “What’s on the table?”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Rather, he takes out two twenty-thousand bills and waves it in front of the guard in anticipation. “How’s _this_ sound?” And almost immediately, the old geezer swipes the money from Yoongi’s clutches, skipping away jovially while ripping the pink slip into shreds.

The two stare at the dancing man, flabbergasted; Yoongi shakes his head, muttering, “Crazy old man.”

“T-Thank-you so much,” Suran stammers, bowing one too many times for Yoongi’s liking. “I really had no idea. The Incheon office building was never as complex as this one.” They board the elevator with the other occupants, and Yoongi waves off her gratitude with a half-smile.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re going to break your back soon with all the bending you do, by the way.”

“I’ll try not to, but there are absolutely no promises.”

Suddenly remembering her promise from yesterday, he takes a peek at her hand – free of any pieces of jewelry and nail polish – and contemplates whether to initiate first.

But much to his satisfaction, she follows through:  Firm and strong, but still gentle. He feels _weak_ – his own hand is so limp in her grasp. “Don’t worry,” She reassures. “I remembered.”

Their handshake only lasted for a few brief seconds, and by then, she’s already reached her floor and waved good-bye for the morning. He wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him that her smooth, long fingers refused to let go and continued to linger.

Not that he minds.

Yoongi barely has any time to register his thoughts at the main entrance to his office  when a rambunctious Tae-Hyung bounds over towards him and ruffles his mop of hair affectionately. “I. Saw. **_EVERYTHING_**! Guys, guys, come quick! Yoongi- _hyung_ got himself a _girlfriend_!”

“I. Do. Not.” Yoongi states with gritted teeth as Tae-Hyung detailed his observations to the rest of the group for five minutes straight without taking noticeable breaths in between. “Jimin- _ah_ , get off my desk.”

“So, what’s her name, _hyung_?” The said man teases, cupping his cheeks with his hands.

“I think I’ve seen her. Green hair, right? She works on the tenth floor.” Seokjin says, sipping his coffee.

“ _Ninth_.” Yoongi corrects, adding fuel to the fire that he had no intentions of accidentally starting.

“Oh, my **_GOD_**! _Hyung_ , how ‘bout you pass on some of your techniques to me?” Jung-Kook prods, poking the irritated and annoyed Yoongi every few seconds.

“The thing is though,” Tae-Hyung begins, clicking his tongue. “I don’t think she actually knows _hyung_ ’s name.”

Nam-Joon chortles, clapping his hands together. “Absolutely golden. From now on, Yoongi- _hyung_ will be known as the ‘Parking Fine Boy’.”

“I prefer ‘Money Bags’, to be very honest.”

“Hey, **_I_** was going to say that!”

“Min **_Won_** gi. Get it. Because the Korean currency is won and he paid with – okay, okay, Jeez, Jung-Kook- _ah_ , _stop hitting me_! I get it, my joke sucks!”

“Mr. I-Pay-Parking-Fines-For-Hot-Girls.”

As one can tell, there’s a specific reason _why_ Yoongi chooses to remain private about his personal life.

* * *

 

On Wednesday, Yoongi habitually drifts into work with a steaming mug of hot chocolate in one hand, and a piping hot croissant in the other from the bakery three blocks away. Often, Seokjin enjoys mocking his junior with passing remarks about his inability to take caffeine.

“All you need is a baguette loaf and the make-up of a mime and you’ll fit right in.  It’s legit. Can we tell President Bang to organize a _‘Paint-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls Day’_?”

That morning, though, he spots a rather brightly-coloured drink in her hand and a savoury sandwich, packed in a plastic bag wound around her wrist. She greets him with a polite bow, and he returns it.

“At least I figured out your name now!” With squinted eyes, she slowly reads the messy scrawl on the coffee cup. “Min Yoon-Ji? You don’t seem like a Yoon-Ji to me, unless you decide to grow your hair out.”

“My favourite barista does this _all_ the dang time. It’s Yoongi. And also,” He glances at her cup with scrutinizing eyes. “That looks terribly artificial.”

Suran laughs; a light, melodious lilt that echoes throughout the elevator. “I know some people say it’s just empty calories, but,” She shakes the cup in front of him, and he watches the tapioca pearls dance before his eyes. “It’s my weakness.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, stepping behind him to make room for others, and she does the same. He takes in the light scent of lavender:  Much more welcoming than the skunk spray he inhales every morning. “Bubble tea cafes open _this_ early? I didn’t even know that existed.”

“Well, one of my close friends actually owns a bubble tea shop just around the corner,” She explains, taking a sip. “He prefers sleeping in than opening at seven in the morning, but uh,” She giggles and a sheepish smile grows on her pretty face. “He owes me some favours, so…”

Her voice trails off into silence, and Yoongi wonders where the discomforting twinge in his heart came from.

“I never knew secretaries drank anything else other than earl grey and mocha.” She passes him a withering glance, and he clarifies with a pink blush, “I mean like, not to generalize and stereotype, but I’ve noticed a majority of them refusing to order anything with more than four hundred calories per cup.”

She still didn’t say anything. God fuck; he palms himself in frustration. “I’m so sorry; sometimes, I ramble and say useless crap.”

“Thankfully, your ‘ _useless crap_ ’ provides great amusement so I can get started on my work in a good mood.” He exhales in relief, but is immediately taken aback when she sends him a mischievous wink. “Just don’t do that when you ask beautiful girls out, alright? It doesn’t bode well with us ladies.”

Not only does her sudden cuteness catch him off guard, but her impressionable words do, too. Was that was a welcome for him to approach her for a date? He shakes it off, knowing full well that he was getting ahead of himself. “W-what is that, by the way?”

“It’s Thai milk tea. Works like a charm in staying awake for those full-day meetings. Would you like to try some?”

 _Yes._ “As much as I would like to,” Yoongi begins to say with an embarrassed chuckle. He glances at the monitor before him, disappointed at how their time together only lasts around a minute (Or two, at the max). “I don’t think I would prefer my colleagues seeing my lips coated in bright red.”

“ _Cherry_ -red lip lacquer.”

A genuine compliment drifts into his head, but instead, he backs out and asks, “Where’d you get it?”

“Etude House,” She replies, sounding somewhat humiliated and subdued. “Nothing special.” An echo of childish giggles reverberates near the back of the elevator, and he watches as Suran’s face flushes fifty shades redder.

Realization flashes in Yoongi’s eyes; the trio of young women behind him were gossipy secretaries from the nineteenth floor that always made brave attempts to flirt with his colleagues whenever the building held their bi-annual fire drills. Dressed and accessorized in Gucci and Louis Vuitton, faces caked in Laneige and Sulhwasoo – Yoongi doesn’t quite understand what the predicament was with buying lower-end brands of make-up; he decides to ask Nam-Joon about this later.

The elevator bell pings daintily, signifying Suran’s stop. She passes him a nod of acknowledgement, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate this time. The compliment that he wanted to say comes back.

“The brand doesn’t matter. What does is that it suits you beautifully.”

* * *

 

On Thursdays, Yoongi doesn’t pack his lunch. Not that his supervisor was treating his team to free food – he was _much_ too cheap for that, after all.

No – Thursdays meant that his favourite Italian restaurant at the corner of Main and Fifth had specialty deals on their pasta. And Yoongi wasn’t a picky guy; he normally went with the one thing he knew was always one hundred percent tasty.

(Which was lasagne baked in a zesty, tangy tomato sauce and sprinkled with oodles of Parmesan cheese. Nam-Joon might make snide remarks about how Yoongi never tried anything new, but to hell with that guy.)

Yoongi is surprised to bump into Suran again when he’s heading back to his office; surprised, but definitely not unhappy about it – and it shows. His cheeks are uplifted, and he’s beaming at her genuinely, teeth showing and all.

“On your lunch break today, Yoongi- _sshi_?”

He holds up his take-out bag in response. “Aside from Korean, my palette also craves Italian.”

“Main and Fifth?”

“A girl who knows her cuisine within the first few days at a new workplace,” He chuckles. “That’s pretty cool.”

“I don’t mean to brag, but,” She flips her hair back dramatically. “I actually know a lot about pasta. Did you know a lot of pasta names are derived from how they look? So, for example, stelline pasta resembles stars. Fusilli, on the other hand…”

If it were any other person, Yoongi probably would have snapped at them to shut up and let him ascend in peace with J.Cole blasting in his ears. But then again, this was Suran; somehow, in some way, learning about the history of Italian cuisine was just an infinite times more…interesting?

“That’s pretty weird, isn’t it?” Yoongi questions an attentive Jung-Kook, whom – unfortunately – was the only one in the office while the rest went to buy Subway foot-longs. “Like, I wouldn’t give two shits about the root origins of pasta names.”

With a mouthful of avocado and ham, Jung-Kook chews loudly for a few moments before saying, “I think you already know the answer yourself, _hyung_.”

Yoongi’s eyebrow quirks upward uncertainly. “ _Really_ , now?”

“Yeah! It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jung-Kook chuckles, taking a giant sip of soda. “Pasta names are **_great_** sources of inspiration for what to call your kids one day! I mean, stelline would make a beautiful baby girl.”

Yoongi knew it was too good to be true. He stuffs a few more pieces into his mouth before muttering, “And here you are, always telling me why I’m single.”

* * *

 

On Friday, Yoongi leaves the office much earlier than usual – exactly half an hour before their dismissal at five, to be precise. Normally, Jimin would’ve made a huge fuss about ‘ _not abiding organization rules_ ’ and that he ‘ _won’t save his ass_ ’, but since the younger man was off and away, basking in sunshine on the beaches of Busan, well, Yoongi could care less.

He sees her on his descent when the elevator reaches his floor, and they greet each other simply.

“Happy Friday!” She cheers energetically, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Happy Friday, indeed. Are you acclimatizing well?”

She sighs. “Seoul is nice, but some things – you don’t really adapt to within just five days, y’know? My co-workers here are kind, but there – I really felt like I had a tight-knit group that was like my second family. Four years! Those feelings stick with you, regardless.”

“I get it,” He replies with his hands in his pockets. “Same with the guys on the twentieth floor. They all drive me to wits end with their marshmallow fights and rolling chair races, but, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Her lips quirk in amusement, and she brushes her fringe away from her forehead. “You should tell me more about them sometime. I’d like to know if you’ve ever won first place with those competitions.”

Yoongi admits:  He doesn’t read women _that_ well. Sometimes, signals fly over his head and it isn’t until five years after the incident of rare female-initiated flirting when he’s preparing to sleep that it hits him with an ‘ _Oh fuck_ ’. This time, though? He picks it up quicker than a shark smelling the scent of blood in the water. Maybe because it’s Suran, so he’s much more hopeful for a spur-of-the-moment date.

“Sometime soon?”

“I’m going on a date tonight.” Her tone sounds apologetic, and while Yoongi is slightly caught off guard, he regains his composure, and swallows the large lump in his throat before grunting, “Ah. I see. Well, then.”

Placing his hands in his pockets, he steps out of the elevator first and lets out a muffled whisper.

“Have fun, Suran- _sshi_.”

She questions if it was her ears deceiving her, or if she actually heard undeniable pain in the back of his throat.

That night after Yoongi finishes his shower and tucks himself into bed with a glass of wine and his novel, he secretly wishes that whoever it was had leftover onion stuck between his teeth.

Or, better yet, _choked_ to death on lobster rigatoni.

 _To:  Nam-Joonie_  
Sent At:  10:53 PM  
  
Do you think it’s petty of me to wish fatality on the guy she’s seeing for drinks tonight?

_From:  Nam-Joonie  
Sent At:  10:55 PM_

_Yoongs, I love you like a bro and all, but seriously, you’re immature. Go the fuck to sleep and ask her out on a date on Monday._

For once, during the six years that he’s worked there, he wishes for the weekend to pass by him much faster.

* * *

 

Like it was mentioned before, Yoongi _isn’t_ exactly the best with women.

He’s blunt, brooding and the type that makes women cry with his brute honesty. Jung-Kook often declares that he will remain single for all eternity.

So, when they reach the secluded rooftop that Friday afternoon during lunchtime, it takes him much longer than a normal man to gather his courage and ask her if she’s willing to join him on a date.

It was only twenty-three degrees that day, but his fringe is damp with sweat, his heart rate elevates faster than ever and his mouth turns dry.

Once everything he wants to say leaves his body, she only stares at him, wide-eyed, for a few moments before telling him, somewhat regrettably, that it might not be the best idea.

“The news will spread like wildfire throughout the building, Yoongi- _sshi_.”

 “We don’t work for the same organization.” He begins pointedly. “You’re not my secretary. I’m not your boss. And I don’t want you to be. I would like you to be my date.”

“ _Still_.” She’s clearly losing a fighting battle at this point.

“Hmm, then, perhaps, I should put it more nicely, then. I would like to consult you over techniques on how to file my documents faster, and would prefer to do it over Spanish paella or traditional _kimchi jigae_. I have absolutely no preferences. Now, I don’t want you to be my date. I want you to be my advisor.”

But from the way she was looking at him, and how hard she was trying to fight back her smile, we all know:  She was bound to agree, anyway.  
She needs to hear about the rambunctious bunch that made up his co-workers, after all.  

 


End file.
